


Kanto Region, Japan, 1923

by Katzedecimal



Series: Heaven Is Mean To Aziraphale [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Fat Shaming, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Heavy Angst, Horror, Pyromania, Tearjerker, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 17:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: ”C’mon, Angel - let’s go get drunk.”Aziraphale sighed; that’s what Crowley would have said, at a time like this, if he were here.  He hadn’t seen the demon since they’d argued over Crowley’s request for holy water.  Apparently Hell hadn’t seen the demon either and that was worrying.He really missed Crowley right now.





	Kanto Region, Japan, 1923

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rouletheworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rouletheworld/gifts).

He was just sitting down to lunch, too. Not that he was really looking forward to it. The lunch, sure, but the reason he was here, no not really. Another “Act of God” for Aziraphale to witness, the eyes of Heaven on Earth. They hadn’t told him what exactly he was witnessing this time but he knew what the practical upshot would be: Lots of people dying, that’s what. For that’s what Heaven did - they sent him off to watch people die. 

_”They have to be doing this deliberately,”_ Crowley had said, as far back as Vesuvius. Aziraphale had just bitten down on his lips, because he was thinking the same thing. The other angels complained about it often, having to be in the world (Gabriel certainly did.) By now, Aziraphale was pretty certain that, whenever they had some unpleasant worldly task they wanted to duck out of, they pawned it off on him. 

He was just sitting down to lunch when the world started shaking. _**OH!** Oh dear…_ He glanced up at the creaking roof, shoved himself to his feet and immediately bolted out the door, just as the ryokan collapsed into a pancake.

All around Aziraphale, buildings were shaking apart and collapsing. The people who ran out into the streets fell to their knees, unable to stay upright. Then the shaking stopped.

Aziraphale smelled smoke. He looked back at the remains of his ryokan to see flames licking up from where the kitchen used to be. _Oh **NO!**_ Because it was lunch time and everyone was cooking and the whole city was made of wood and paper and it was aflame before he even processed what was happening. Within minutes, the flames had formed walls all around him. 

A second temblor, then a third, and Tokyo was burning.

He snapped his fingers. Miraculously there was a safe place near the river, by the old army clothing depot. He watched as people started streaming towards it, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least there’d be survivors. 

They gathered there, twenty, twenty-five, thirty thousand of them, gathering together in the one place that wasn’t engulfed. Aziraphale turned his soot-smeared face to the sky and sent a brief prayer of gratitude. 

Thirty-five thousand, thirty-eight thousand, forty thousand people… and then it all went so badly, so fast. 

Because a three-hundred foot column of flame reared up almost literally out of nowhere and began to move - **fast,** and straight towards the depot where over forty thousand people were praying for their lives. He barely had time to scream, let alone do anything but watch as forty thousand people were burned alive in a twister of flames. 

The angel fell to his knees, gasping with shock and horror. 

Then he heard the laughter.

Under the smell of smoke and ash, the smell of mould, sulphur, and rot. Demonic laughter, he realized. But not Crowley, no, Crowley would never do something like this. But he’d described a demon who would. Many times he’d listened to Crowley describe this demon as Aziraphale nursed his battered friend back to health. A demon with a penchant for pyromania. A demon with a love of violence. A demon with black jelly eyes, white hair, and mottled pale grey skin. A demon who was standing nearby, laughing and pointing at him. The Duke of Hell -- Hastur. 

“You should see the look on your face!”

“You did this?” Aziraphale whispered.

“You’re one of those _angel_ guys, aren’t you,” Hastur giggled. Another demon stood behind him, dark of skin and pointy of hair. His fawning manner made Aziraphale wonder if he was a servant of some sort.

“Principality,” Aziraphale clarified, “Aziraphale.”

Hastur stopped laughing.

“_**You?**_” he sneered at last, “_You’re_ the Aziraphale that has that idiot Crowley so afraid?”

“Isn’t he your usual agent? Why are **you** here?”

“Can’t find him. He hasn’t checked in in nearly sixty years.”

Aziraphale did a little mental calculation. “And why do you suppose that is?” he said to Hastur, taking care to imply that the reason was absolutely him. Which it probably was, if he did the math right.

Hastur snorted. “Crowley’s an idiot,” he said bluntly, “**You’re** no commander! You’re just a pudgy little dipshite, that’s what you are! You **can’t** be Aziraphale! Where’s your sword?”

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale said calmly.

“What, really? Why?”

“Didn’t need it.”

Hastur sneered, “You’re joking.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, “When has Crowley ever said I needed a sword to defeat him?”

Hastur hesitated. True, Crowley had never mentioned a sword but every angel had one, didn’t they? They all had **something.** “Where’s your weapon, then?”

Aziraphale patted around his pockets and finally drew out a pen. It was a fine fountain pen, the newest sort, very modern. Very sharp.

Hastur burst into hysterical laughter. “Really? That’s what you’ve got? A pen? Well,” the duke flexed his hand and snapped upwards, manifesting his own rusty, poisoned blade. “They do say as the pen is mightier than the sword,” he stepped forward, gleeful, “But which would you rather be struck b—*”

The laughter stopped. The sword fell from slack fingers. The pointy-haired demon screamed as the Duke of Hell toppled backwards, black blood dripping down his face from the fountain pen buried deeply in his eye socket.

“The sword, obviously,” Aziraphale told the discorporating body, “You can see it coming.” Primly he patted down his waistcoat and adjusted his cravat then glanced up. The pointy-haired demon underling shrieked and fled.

“Well,” Aziraphale huffed to himself, “That was a thoroughly unpleasant experience.”

* * * *

_”C’mon, Angel - let’s go get drunk.”_

Aziraphale sighed; that’s what Crowley would have said, at a time like this, if he were here. He hadn’t seen the demon since they’d argued over Crowley’s request for holy water. Apparently Hell hadn’t seen the demon either and that was worrying.

He’d had to go quite a long way out of town to find an inn that wasn’t devastated. He finally found a small onsen ryokan that wasn’t _too_ badly damaged. They were offering food and drink, anyways. They were nearly overloaded but - miraculously - they had enough for all. 

A tray of sake was brought to him and he sipped, not really caring whether the quality was good. _”Whatever, it’s alcohol, it gets the job done,”_ Crowley would say. 

Crowley had a tendency to just… be in the vicinity, whenever Aziraphale was sent on these damnable missions. No matter where Aziraphale was, the demon would be just passing through, stopping by for a quick temptation, or whatever his excuse was for showing up at Aziraphale’s side. The demon would watch the destruction with him, voicing the thoughts that were in Aziraphale’s head. And when it was all over, they’d find a tavern and get roaring drunk. It was their pattern and Aziraphale never had to go through it alone. 

He really missed Crowley right now. 

He thought of the demon Hastur and how different he was from Crowley. Hastur smelled of mould, sulphur, tar smoke, and rot - foul and nauseating. Crowley smelled of patchouli and myrrh, coffee, and pipe tobacco - similar, yet somehow pleasantly fragrant. And Crowley was kind (though he would deny it most fervently!)

It took several minutes before Aziraphale realized that someone in the ryokan smelled the same way Crowley did, and looked up. 

The woman who had brought him sake. She was sitting _seiza_ to his left, wearing a black silk _iromuji_ kimono with a dark red _obi_, her auburn hair dressed in a mature woman’s style. Currently she was facing away from him, watching survivors straggle into the ryokan’s shelter. Then she turned back and her eyes were shielded by smoked glasses. Aziraphale felt the pressure of tears. _”Crowley?”_ he gasped and his voice was shaky with relief, “Is it really you? I’m not just hallucinating you, am I? That would be the perfect capper to my day.” He wiped his brow, blinking hard to keep the tears back. He felt a light touch on his shoulder and looked up again, “What are you doing here? And don’t tell me you were passing through on a job. I discorporated your boss earlier, he told me no one’s seen hide nor hair of you for nearly sixty years.”

Crowley didn’t answer but she did tip her head down to peer at him sceptically over her glasses. The sight of her golden snake eyes nearly forced Aziraphale’s tears out again. Her expression clearly radiated, _”You discorporated my boss?”_

“Hastur. He is your boss, is he not? The one that gives you those beatings he likes to call ‘performance reviews’? Yes, well, he was here. Not **here** here, down in Tokyo, near the river.” He rubbed his forehead painfully, “The earthquakes struck at lunch time. Everybody cooking, all those charcoal fires and braziers. The city was up in flames before I knew it. It was all I could do to miracle them a safe place to go.” He wiped his hands down his face. “He sent a dragon twist. Big, tall… like a dustdevil but made of fire… He sent it right into them. Forty thousand people, all dead, all immolated. The screaming…” He covered his face with his hands and shuddered. When he took them away, the tears were running freely down his face, “It took fifteen minutes.”

Crowley closed her fingers over his own. She skootched a little closer and refilled his sake.

“He stood there laughing at it all. Just laughing.” Crowley rolled her eyes and nodded - _yeah, that’s Hastur alright,_ was what her gesture seemed to say. “So I might have got a little tetchy,” Aziraphale finished. Crowley snorted and smiled. Aziraphale looked at her, “Is there something wrong with your voice? Or are you just still not speaking to me?” She snorted again, this time in derision. “Well, that’s your prerogative, I’m sure. You’re here and I’m… _very_ grateful.” Blast it, he was losing control.

Even if Crowley wasn’t speaking to him, she had lost none of her compassion. She drew Aziraphale into an embrace against her shoulder. Aziraphale broke. He felt like a complete fool, sobbing against the demon’s shoulder but but _dammit_ if Crowley wasn’t a better angel than all of Heaven combined. 

He felt her snap her fingers but didn’t look up, assuming she’d stopped time for the people around them, giving him space. She didn’t let go. He felt her fingers in his hair and felt her rocking gently, which had to be hard on her knees, sitting _seiza_ like that. Overlying her usual pleasant aroma, she smelled of the smoke of the burning city - she must have come some way to find him, then, hadn’t miracled herself directly to him. And she was clearly here for him. 

He didn’t know how long he wept. At some point, Crowley had pulled him up across her lap. Finally Aziraphle fell silent for a long time, his face still tucked into the hollow of Crowley’s neck and shoulder. This close, he could smell the aroma of snake musk that she exuded, faint like the ghost of a memory. Crowley never accepted thanks; it was un-demonic or something like that. Aziraphale found her hand and linked his fingers through hers, hoping the small gesture would convey his relief and his profound gratitude that she had broken her decades-long avoidance of him for this. Finally - it might have been hours or weeks or even years, he didn’t care - Aziraphale whispered, “I want to go home.”

“You are home,” Crowley whispered back.

Aziraphale looked around. They were in the back room of his bookshop, in Soho. Crowley hadn’t stopped time, she had miracled them home. He felt another overwhelming surge of emotion and stared at her, then hugged her again, hard. When he drew back, he pressed a light kiss to her cheek, near the snake in front of her ear, and hoped she wouldn’t reject the gesture. 

She didn’t. He slid off her lap and sat opposite her, holding her hands. She didn’t let go. “I’m still upset with you,” she said softly.

Aziraphale nodded and swallowed. “I understand that. I haven’t changed my mind.”

She nodded. Then she glanced up over the tops of her glasses, “You’re still my best friend.”

Aziraphale felt a profound relief sweep through him and he gripped her hands tighter. “As you are mine,” he whispered roughly. 

Crowley nodded again, looking just as relieved. She coaxed him to his feet and pushed him back towards the couch. “Get some sleep, Angel.”

“You know I don’t sleep.”

“Will you not if I ask it?”

Aziraphale bowed his head and nodded, “If you think it best, then I will sleep, for you.”

“Alright then,” Crowley said. She snapped her fingers and the angel slid quickly into sleep. She brushed her fingers through his hair and rose, gazing down at him. Then she sighed and whispered Aziraphale’s favourite benediction, “And dream of what you like best, Angel.”


End file.
